Dancing with Destiny
by bokhi
Summary: [Underdark Shenanigans added as a chapter. Otherwise, Hiatus] Take your runofthemill uberparty. Downsize liberally, equalize with large dosage of luck and humor, then send through BGII. What do you get? Rowan's SemiAwesome Sword Coast Adventure!TM
1. Author's Notes/Prologue

The Obligatory Rambling Author's Note:  
  
And to think, I swore to myself that I'd never force Rowan to stumble through BG II in fanfic format because EVERYONE seems to be writing that (Not about Rowan, mind you, but about their PC going through the game).  
  
But damn it, I cannot fight my inner sheep. I am a sheep! I am also an attention whore! Damn right!  
  
And because I was bored out of my mind (let's face it- forcing Rowan to fight the Shadow Dragon alone, and watching her die after only getting his hp down to "injured" is only amusing the first.two.times), I have decided to resume my fanficcing ways (which I had presumed dead after my gruelling months of non-stop schoolwork). Because I so find cheap gags and obvious parodying of any rpg oh-so entertaining. Yes, I have no life. Now shut up and read the goddamn story.  
  
And before this gets way too rambling and stupid (I get the feeling its MUCH too late for this. Oh well), I'll just say:  
  
Dear Ladies and Gentlemen, sardonic critics of all ages, I humbly present to thee:  
  
Dancing with Destiny  
  
Otherwise known as  
  
Rowan's Semi-Awesome Sword Coast Adventure!  
  
Rowan's Stats:  
  
Do you really want to know this? No, I didn't think so. Because stats are boring.  
  
All we have to know is that she is a moron, a moron with amazing luck, and, incidentally, a sorceress. Who can't cast magic missile properly. Or summon things. Or - ah, never mind.  
  
Onward!  
  
For the befuddled: I suppose Rowan got a bit of an introduction when I wrote "Underdark Shenanigans" waaay back in.I forget. If you've read it, rest assured that this IS the same disgruntled, unhappy bitch. God help us all.  
  
Prologue: The Obligatory Back Story  
  
The Time of Troubles saw a new age of myth and legend. Gods walked as mortals, easily fragile, easily destroyed - chaos, unrestrained by any deity, unbound by any law that had possessed it before, was unleashed upon the world, warping the very fabric of its existence as magic itself twisted and wove into new paths, the likes of which was so convoluted and horrifying, even the hack n' slash terror that is Blizzard's Diablo franchise couldn't and still cannot compare.  
  
And Elminster didn't even die. Isn't that scary?  
  
It was during this time that Bhaal, god of Murder and of all things generally unpleasant, got a VISION.  
  
It wasn't a very pretty vision, mind you - he was, after all, the god of MURDER, and we all know that MURDER, DEATH, and CARNAGE are never very pretty - but he didn't even find this VISION to be remotely entertaining or even marginally humorous; an oddity in itself, as Bhaal usually derived GREAT pleasure in the suffering of others at his leisure. But then again, this VISION wasn't about the death of that staff-wielding merchant about to be beaten to death by a band of.uh.bandits, or even about the forthcoming death of his mortal cousin Bob's second son's nephew in-law's wife's third uncle's bastard child Naaber at the hands of an imaginary warrior-tree.  
  
No, no, this VISION foretold, in gratuities and redundant detail, Bhaal's own death in his mortal form.  
  
Catching his breath after the waves of premonition left him, Bhaal took a moment to say a few choice words about the drawbacks of mortality. Then, being the clever (cruel and brutish, true, but still clever) god that he was, he devised a master plan to thwart fate.  
  
To give him credit, it was an ingenious way to ensure future Murder, Death, and massive amounts of Carnage; it was also a very crafty way to mix business with pleasure. In short, it involved him getting laid by as many fanatical cult-like female followers as he could find.  
  
Well, they didn't have to be strictly female. He always was a sucker for a pretty face.*ahem*  
  
That way, he figured, his children would manifest his powers at the prime of their lives, and, as greedy as they would be, they'd all fight each other to take their deceased father's place on the Throne of Blood. The catch, of course (face it: there is ALWAYS a catch), would be that all the resulting deaths would refuel dead-old dad, and VOILA! He would just come back in one of his children's bodies.  
  
Simple, eh? .  
Not quite.  
  
After planting his devious seeds in every willing (and some unwilling) women he could find, Bhaal died painfully from the resulting STD - erm, that is, Bhaal died painfully as the VISION proclaimed, ironically murdered by someone bigger, badder, and craftier than he was.  
  
All this was twenty-something odd years ago.  
  
Fast forward two decades, give or take a few years.  
  
The world had calmed down remarkably well in the span of two decades, and life was peaceful - well, not really, since the Sword Coast is called the Sword Coast for a reason - but life was as peaceful as it was before the Time of Troubles, and for that all of Toril breathed a sigh of relief. A bit too soon, actually.  
  
The little brats of Bhaal - those that weren't brutally slaughtered by zealous anti-Bhaal extremists, that is - grew up. Not that such a thing was remarkable in itself, 'cause lets face it: cattle grow up. Dragons grow older than they already are. Even elven bastards grow up - eventually. But the thing was, it seemed that this palpable atmosphere of tension followed the little kids around everywhere they went - there was, after all, a PROPHECY; a really scary PROPHECY made by all sorts of wise, benevolent and shaggy bearded old men, whose names all seemed to start with some sort of vowel.  
  
So it was a wonder that not ALL of Bhaal's children were taken to their pre-emptive deaths by the said zealous anti-Bhaal extremists.  
  
It did make sense really. Why wait until they grow up, become powerful, and wreak havoc in the Realms when you can nip the thing in the bud?  
  
Luckily (or maybe it was unlucky), not everyone agreed with that thinking, which leads us to the beginning of this particular epic.  
  
Candlekeep.  
  
A library fortress and font of knowledge, tucked away into a discreet corner of Faerun, and, incidentally, home of one Rowan of Candlekeep, under Gorian's tutelage.  
  
Now, if one asked any of the monks residing the old, hallowed halls, nine out of ten would say that Gorian was actually a very smart man, even something of a wise man (as opposed to a wise-ass, though a certain Winthrope claims that was also sometimes the case).  
  
So it was often a matter of speculation - many wondered how he, Gorian, could have made such a gross miscalculation on the matter of adoption.  
  
If asked, Gorian often mumbled something about downing one too many ales before raiding the ritual, and besides, he had been under more than a LITTLE pressure to save SOMEONE who could fulfill a happier prophecy, what with the sacrifices going on and the constant attacks by fanatical Bhaal- worshiping humanoids. So little baby Rowan, who had been sitting docilely by the altar and contentedly scratching up the blue-and black painted art- deco design, happened to be the closest Bhaal-spawn he could find; Gorian yanked her up by her little baby arms and hauled butt out of there before they all died.  
  
In retrospect, Gorian figured that he probably shouldn't have chosen the one that was taking something like subdued delight in deliberate property damage.  
  
His last thought as he lay dying on the end of Sarevok's blade was: "If only I hadn't had that extra mug of ale before leaving to bust up the ritual that fateful night."  
  
Rowan, greatly saddened by the death of her mentor, made certain to relieve his corpse of all gold and other valuables, as she solemnly swore to remember his noble sacrifice in the nearest tavern that served Moonshae brandy, and promised to take care of herself, as she was certain he would wish her to do so.  
  
The next part, any bard worth his title would be able to articulate. A war diverted, Sarevok defeated - the stuff of legends, as well as an enigma of massive proportion.  
  
After tripping liberally over her own two feet, Rowan somehow managed to get her half-brother killed - not "managed to kill her half-brother" but "managed to get her half-brother killed" - rumour was that Rowan was actually nowhere NEAR Baldur's Gate, and that it was the work of a ravishingly beautiful, incredibly sexy-yet-innocent, good-hearted, skilled, determined and stunningly modest, blonde and blue-eyed elven warrior-mage- cleric by the name of Rowen, who also happened to be Sarevok's half-sister Bhaalspawn.  
  
Of course, as Rowan would protest, that was just.idle gossip.  
  
After their.invigorating adventures at Baldur's Gate, Rowan got a severe case of wander-lust, most likely ignited by the rumours of great wealth and power available for grab in Calimsham to whomever was unscrupulous enough to grab it, although Rowan swore on Gorian's grave it was in the spirit of adventure, good, and BALANCE.  
  
And so, the ragtag group left Baldur's Gate in a hurry after a certain innkeeper brought about some pretty preposterous charges, including but not limited to: thievery, property damage, fraud, and conspiracy to take over the trade within the city.  
  
Pure fantasy, Rowan was sure.  
  
On the road to Calimsham, Rowan's party suddenly came down with a bad case of stomach cramps, and, suspecting foul-play from the last inn they had resided in, were prepared to return and pay a little visit - after the vomiting stopped, of course.  
  
Getting their bearings, Rowan turned her back on her party for just one, tiny moment, pausing dramatically for effect as she pointed to the far horizon that was sporting a rather picturesque sunset when, without warning, a hard, metallic object met the back of her head with a funky "clang."  
  
The poor girl dropped like a sack of potatoes, not even having the time to think something suitably appropriate like, "What the hell?" before the her head was invaded by swirling pictures of Sarevok in drag. She was not only relieved, but happy to pass out into utter blackness when someone clunked her over the head again, for good measure.  
  
And that, is where the story begins.  
  
End notes:  
  
Wow. That sucker was long. And to think, this is just the prologue. Oh ye gods. What have I gotten myself into?  
  
As always, any and all feedback is appreciated as long as its not asinine and off-topic in nature.  
  
Thanks!  
  
Next: Chapter I: An All-Expense Paid, One-Way Trip to Hell. 


	2. Chapter I

Chapter 1: Chateau Irenicus  
Part I  
  
Rowan woke up with the distinct impression that she was trapped inside some hellish dwarven smithy.  
  
"By the Gods," she moaned "Shut up!"  
  
She whipped her hand back to smack whoever it was that was hitting a gong over her head, and then immediately regretted it - black dots assaulted her vision and an overpowering sensation of nausea followed - and her errant hand smashed itself against something very hard, unyielding, and with the same properties of cold steel. The sudden burst of pain inspired an epiphany inside her fogged up brain.  
  
Oh, she thought in the moment of sudden clarity, I must have drunk myself into oblivion last night. Strange how she didn't recall having a bottle of Moonshae brandy in her pack, stranger still that the tree behind her seemed to have the properties of solid iron...  
  
It was then that she remembered that, no, she did not have any Moonshae brandy in her pack - she had no doubt that the last inn owner was the very definition of "stingy," as well as words in the persuasion of "bastard," "goat's ass," and, most notably, "cheap" - oh wait, that would be redundant. Rowan settled for the apt description of "Cheap son of a bitch," and grimly recalled the fat, portly and falsely smiling face reassuring her that no, their inn most certainly did NOT carry that particular beverage and that she should stop harassing the maids about it if she didn't want permanent boot prints imprinted on her backside - with the assurance that his bouncers had size 12 thread sole boots of the Ram...not that she'd ever heard of anything called Boots of the Ram in her life.  
  
Rowan hadn't, and furthermore, still didn't, consider her line of questioning to be "harassment" of the maids - it wasn't as though she'd been, gods forbid, threatening the ugly wenches - simply pointing out that, the drinks served for a certain Waterhaven noble seemed to be MUCH different from the drinks served for her party, and that such...preferred treatment may not be all that good for business.  
  
All in all, it had only been a bit of friendly advice...  
  
Eesh, Rowan would have shaken her head in exasperation, if she'd been foolish enough to try moving around again - Some people are just so close- minded and unappreciative. Not to mention, they don't even know how to treat heroes when they stop by for tea. Trying her best to ignore her still- throbbing hand - Rowan had always held a firm belief that she was, in fact, largely allergic to pain in whatever shape or size it presented itself - forced her eyes to focus.  
  
She was certain now that she was indoors; as dank and dark as it was, the place definitely had a rank odor about it that would rival even the ripest stables in Candlekeep - and as her eyes stopped tricking her into thinking there was a huge ass Efreeti dancing like a Calimshite belly dancer to her left, she realized the offensive object responsible for the lances of red-hot agony in her delicate hand...okay, so maybe wasn't agony she was feeling, and maybe her hand wasn't all that delicate, but then again, smashing an unarmored hand against re-enforced steel tended to hurt.  
  
A lot.  
  
Not that, the walls of her cage - and Rowan would have vented her frustration at being caged like some sort of circus curiosity to anyone within 10 miles of her location, if only her head would stop ringing and her eyes would actually stay focused for more than half a second - were actually high-quality re-enforced steel. It was actually more like, bars of rusty, bent-out-of-shape steel, but hey, it wasn't as though that made it any less irritating; rusty, bent-out-of-shape steel still had the same qualities of cold, re-enforced steel, just without the...erm...qualities...of...  
  
Rowan promptly dropped that line of thinking in favour of nursing her injured hand and forcing her eyes back into focus. She managed long enough to see that she was in a dungeon of sorts - cute, in a rustic kind of way; the skeletal bodies still chained to the wall gave it a nice, authentic air and all - but she really would have been able to take in the artistic integrity a whole lot better if she'd been OUTSIDE her cage, as opposed to INSIDE it.  
  
The remains of some poor sop in a similar cage right across the aisle from her didn't do much to lift her mood.  
  
Besides the damp being terrible for her lungs, Rowan was certain it would also be pretty horrid for her hair. The dark wasn't TOO bad, however; pale is, after all, considered to be beautiful in many circles throughout Faerun...  
  
But then again, death inside a metal cage would be murder on her general health and state of being; pursing her lips thoughtfully, Rowan studied the bloody remains of the occupant across the isle.  
  
Nope. Spilling innards would most definitely NOT be received as a fashion statement.  
  
Besides her conviction regarding her stand on the subject of pain, Rowan also unfailingly believed that her innards belonged firmly inside her skin. She really couldn't say for the innards of others, however; she was often hard pressed to muster some compassion for those...unfortunate...souls who were gutted at the end of Minsc's or Jaheira's swords. After all, Rowan had her hands full worrying about HERSELF; it really wasn't HER fault if certain people thought it'd be a good idea to split themselves open just because Rowan and company had a minor disagreement with their beliefs in regards to Bhaal...  
  
Ahem.  
  
With her uninjured hand, the half-elven sorceress warily prodded the lock, trying to remember how a particular spell went. Rowan was very fond of this particular spell, which she now recalled was called "knock," as it had gotten her into very interesting places where very, VERY interesting things (usually very shiny and worth a whole lot of coin) were kept.  
  
In short, locks were utterly defeated in the face of a good "knock" spell.  
  
Unfortunately for her, the constant pounding in her head had only receded into a constant thrumming, and for the life of her, she couldn't remember how that spell worked. Furthermore, she couldn't remember ANY of her spells; Rowan cursed softly as she realized that she seemed to have forgotten ALL of them. In which case, she wished she'd held onto Imoen's spare lock-pick kit.  
  
Rowan was so absorbed in tampering with the lock on the cell door that she didn't hear the footsteps headed in her direction and stop right outside her cage. A heartbeat later, she DID hear the dry, emotionless voice intone,  
  
"Ah. The Child of Bhaal has awoken."  
  
Startled, Rowan jerked her head up in one swift movement, which predictably left her head hurting again and thoroughly disrupted her sense of balance. Before she could think of a suitably pleasant and cheerful retort that would knock her captor off balance and hopefully put her on his good side, she got a good look at his face.  
  
To say, "He had a face even his mother couldn't love" would have been putting it mildly.  
  
Rowan made a surprised and suitably squeaky "eeep!" sound, jerked her off balance self backwards in an instinctual reaction, and then smacked her head against the back of her cage.  
  
She went out like a snuffed out candle faster than a man could blink, and Jon Irenicus was left speaking to thin air as he managed to finish saying, "...more experiments."  
  
He felt an eyebrow twitch in irritation at the sight of the unconscious half-elf.  
  
Unconscious. AGAIN.  
  
Exactly HOW was he supposed to carry out his experiments if she simply refused to stay awake and suffer? It really wasn't fair. If he'd been one to show signs of emotion, he'd have slumped his shoulders in resignation. Since he wasn't one to show signs of emotion, he simply left, muttering about devising some sort of spell that would keep the half-elf awake for longer than a half hour. Yes, that sounded most promising. In the meantime, he'd have to settle for torturing-er, experimenting on the other one. With something that was almost a sigh, Jon Irenicus left.  
  
Rowan, slumped unconscious inside her cage, began to snore.  
  
And it was in that manner that Rowan of Candlekeep got her first glance of Jon Irenicus the Most Vile and Ugly; and merely one hour past that first meeting, was unceremoniously dragged out of her most comfortable cell by her industrious, pink-haired friend, rescued her remaining companions most bravely, and scurried around the dungeon like rats in a maze.  
  
Endnotes: As much as I'd like to take the credit for naming that first dungeon "Chateau Irenicus", the truth of the matter is that I heard the Forgotten Wars people calling it that in their Dungeon Begone mod (which is lovely, btw).  
  
And as for this chapter, yes, I realized nothing happened. But you know, that's the kind of writing I do, because it takes too much EFFORT to actually make things happen all the time, and wow, I'm rambling so maybe I should stop RIGHT NOW.  
  
Done. 


	3. Chapter x

A/N as of 05/03/07: Deleted "Underdark Shenanigans" from profile and moved as a chapter into DWD. Yes, this is why this chapter is labelled "chapter x", because I will eventually fit this into DWD proper somewhere, just not now because I have an exam in four hours (why am I doing this now? I don't know). Otherwise unchanged.

In the meantime, a big thanks to everyone that reviewed "Underdark", despite my usual silence. I really do appreciate all your input, it's just that I'm an old-timer who was around when all reviews had to be answered manually (when did this handy "reply" button come into being, I ask? I never really noticed), and the review alerts were going into a defunct email address anyways. So yeah, that means I didn't actually get any reviews because I wasn't checking my inbox. Haha. I really am lazy. But yes, I do mean it when I say thank you all for your kind words. So: Thank you all, for your kind words!

--Bokhi

Take one uber-party. Down size liberally (taking care to blame it on budget cuts). Stir in generous helpings of un-discussed issues(like, when do they freakin' eat?), and strangely increased luck for the sake of humorous outcomes. Toss in a few angst-ridden characters amongst said company; cover and shake well. What do you get? Baldur's Gate II meets Real People Attitudes ™

Fixed a few grammer and other small problems that were annoying

Underdark Shenanigans

"I just wish this dump wasn't so damn creepy, that's all." Rowan of Candlekeep, resident sorceress, cynic, bitch, and all around Bhaalspawn of the party muttered under her breath as she crept forward on her hands and knees. Currently she was alone, invisible, and edgy, scouting the area just up ahead by her lonesome and praying she wouldn't attract the attention of any passing creature.

Rowan was not normally the praying kind, leaving that up to the uptight cleric in her happy band of adventurers, but the sarcastic half-elf decided that at least this one night-er..day…er..whatever, she would be able to forgive herself for asking the help of some idle deity.  
After all, creeping around the Underdark wasn't something she did everyday. There were all sorts of beasties, Rowan knew, that would be able to find her whether she was invisible or not -- the mere fact that most of the damnable critters in this neighborhood were capable of seeing in the infrared spectrum was discouraging in itself.

But hey, it's worth a try, right?

Grumbling darkly to herself, the unhappy leader of...ah...of...her happy band of adventurers doggedly kept an eye out for spiders, adventurers, or any other beasties.

So why in the Nine Hells was SHE doing this?

Because her wimpy band of adventurers had just wiped the dusty Underdark floors with their butts as they were, once again, kicked around by something bigger and badder.  
Rowan sighed in irritation. She almost felt sorry for Viconia, who at this very moment, was probably firing off more healing and raise dead spells in a row than the average cleric.

Almost.

Mostly, Rowan felt sorry for herself.

"Where ARE you, you stupid brooding pathetic excuse for a drow commander?" She could have sworn he'd said he'd meet her in THIS tunnel...growling quietly with frustration in her oh-so special way, Rowan continued to creep forward. Really, it was not as though Rowan had any intention of meeting him without being flanked by her big bad party; she didn't really want to duke it out with a bunch of brain-sucking illithids either. It was simply that she had every intention of finding where the heck Solaufein had decided to keep himself and find the best non-confrontational route there – they were already out of healing potions.  
And it really didn't help that Minsc seemed to think healing potions tasted better than water and gulped 'em down the way normal people gulped down orange juice. Or apple juice. Or whatever.  
The thought of the giant, over-powered, and way to cheerful ranger managed to elict another small huff of puzzled annoyance. One would think that such an activity would actually HELP Minsc recover from that nasty head wound. Strangely, it made Minsc talk to Boo even MORE.

With a resigned expression that traditionally belonged to martyrs and saints, Rowan bravely forged on, determined to find Solaufein and succeed on her mission. _Hey,_ she thought to herself in her dramatic inner monologue, _I'm a chaotic good aligned character; there's no WAY I'll get my ass seriously whooped..._ Of course not. That simply was not the way Toril turned on its pretty little axis. Feeling cheered and a bit less worried about her future survival prospects, Rowan grinned cheerfully and marched on...right into a protruding stalagmite.

"Oh, SHIIIIT!"

What did a girl have to do for a little light around here?

One dusty, irritating, and tiring Underdark day later, Rowan and her now unhappy group of adventurers stumbled forward in a fashion that only dusty, irritated, tired, Underdark adventurers could stumble.

"I KNOW it's around this bend here, okay?"  
"I do believe that's what you said LAST time, my raven."  
"Shut your trap, bard, before I permanently stitch it shut FOR you."  
"You indulge in domestic handicrafts?"  
"I'm willing to learn if it'll keep you silent."  
"Ah, such flattery, my—"  
"Say 'raven' and I'll rip your freakoid Tiefling spleen out."  
"—Dear sorceress."  
"Nice save."  
"Why, thank you, Imoen."  
"Surfacers can be SO stupid."  
"SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!"  
"Boo says –"  
"FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY! SHUT UP!"  
"—Rowan needs to do some butt-kicking on the backsides of evil!"  
"…"  
"I believe the Lady has requested your silence, cur." To the party's further irritation, Anomen Des-something or the other, whom Rowan had privately dubbed "Annoying Dumbass," decided to pick there and then to recover from his magically induced silence. Curses. Rowan made a mental note to discreetly summon a pit fiend on him next battle. Scowling with the all mighty fury and intimidation her five foot two inches self of a Bhaalspawn could muster, she whirled around to face her party of bad-ass wannabe adventurers, projecting her best Jaheira-esque Glare of Ultimate Doom™ that theoretically should have had grown men wet their pants, but in practice just made her look like some sort of messed-up version of Xzar in drag.

Oh well.

Walking backwards in an attempt to lecture her party and cover ground at the same time, Rowan opened her mouth to begin berating them, when Imoen pointed past her saying,

"Uh, hey, I don't think –"

Too late.

With a resounding _smack_, the half-elf-disguised-as-a-drow walked right into something metallic, hard, and stoic. With a small "oomph" of surprise, she bounced right off said metallic, hard, and stoic object to land unceremoniously on her butt in the dirt. She craned her neck up to see what the heck she had walked into, and muttered,

"Ooops."

Solaufein arched one annoyingly perfect white eyebrow and deadpanned,

"Oh, do continue, Veldrin. I believe that one Matron Mother Baenre in Menzoberranzzan didn't hear you." Damn. Rowan scrambled up in an attempt to salvage her dignity and stared him down. Or would have if she hadn't tripped over her own feet in her haste and sprawled, once more, in the dirt, only this time she landed on her face.  
Ouch.  
Being much too dignified and cool (or too angst-ridden and brooding) to shake his head in exasperation, Solaufein settled for turning around and slinking off into some corner of the tunnel, fully expecting her and her party to follow. Flushing with embarrassment, "Veldrin" did just that, trying her best to ignore the obnoxious snickers following behind her. Aw, hell. She approached the drow commander, noting the dark, shadowed eyes and the frowning mouth as sure signs of some inner-turmoil. Angst-ridden, eh? She fought the impulse to laugh. _Well,_ she thought, _What do YOU know about angst, buster? I'M a daughter of the god of Murder. You think YOU know angst? I can freakin' TEACH classes in angst-management…hm…. I wonder if he'd be interested in a basic, low price course?_ Instead of projecting that thought out loud (since he looked like a purse-pinching prig anyways), all she said was,

"I'm sorry if I got you into trouble." She smiled innocently, the sincerity in her voice honed to perfection from the times she had used that exact line on Imoen. Lo and behold, it worked. The harsh light in his eyes seemed to soften a bit, to be replaced with something that looked quite a bit like confusion and a healthy dose of suspicion.

"I—I thank you," he started in that predictable "angst-ridden drow" way. "It was quite – unpleasant – " he cut himself off, shrugging almost carelessly. "The Mind-Flayers are coming through here," he continued, "prepare yourselves while I cast the spell." With that, he closed his eyes, chanting in a language Rowan and her party did not recognize. With a nod, the band of adventurers took their standard battle positions.

As always, Rowan made sure to station herself AWAY from the potential battle zone, making certain that Minsc was between her and whatever that may pop up.

Solaufein finished chanting, odd, sparkling glitter swirling momentarily in the air around him; then there was a strange "whoosh" sound as the air was ever-so slightly sucked forward in some sort of vacuum, creating several portals.

And out popped the umber-hulks and three ugly mind-flayers. And one very pissed off drow priestess that did not look helpless in the LEAST. Things got very violent then.

The umber-hulks simultaneously attempted to confuse whoever was nearby; luckily, that was Solaufein and not any of her illustrious party members, and the drow simply shrugged off the angry gaze of the hulking beasts as he snaked forward, long-sword in hand. The party members wailed out their various battle cries, and charged -- Which turned out to be a really, really stupid tactic.

Realising their error, Rowan started spewing obscenities that would have done a sailor proud, shrieking at the top of her very healthy lungs as the illithids ignored their umber-hulks as fodder, and stunned Imoen, Annoying Dumbass, and MINSC. Damn. Rowan hauled herself away from the doomed ranger, cursing faster than she'd ever cursed before. Hiding herself behind a convenient stalagmite, Rowan wracked her brain for spells…okay, distractions. Distract those ugly bastards! Gritting her teeth and er…summoning every Monster Summoning IIs in her arsenal, she promptly got about to... summoning.

A pathetic excuse for a wild dog popped up through a summon portal a few minutes later, only to take one look at the ugly squid-faced illithids and run away.

Double damn. Time to go to plan B.

Stepping out from behind the rock just in time to see a mind-flayer attempt to suck poor Minsc's brain out, Rowan scowled and shot off a magic missile.

To her utter horror, the magical projectiles sailed harmlessly over the creature's head. Solaufein, who had just finished decapitating an umber hulk a mere ten paces away, looked at her with a dumbfounded expression that perfectly mirrored her thoughts: How, exactly, did one MISS with a MAGIC MISSILE? With a sheepish grin, Rowan shrugged – _hey, beat's me._ The illithid looked directly at her with what she could swear was a smug expression on its hideous squid-like face…the expression suddenly changed as an ominous rumbling trembled through the tunnel as her errant magic missiles smacked into solid rock. Or at least, it had LOOKED like solid rock. The rumbling got louder, and the ceiling started raining pebbles.

Oops.

Rowan backpedalled fast to press herself against a wall, as did Viconia and Haer'Dalis. The illithids, being the smart monsters that they were, tried to move away from the center of the cavern; a risk, because to get to a wall unoccupied by the enemy, they had to cross the center to the other side.

Rowan had never seen anything move so fast without the assistance of an improved haste spell.

Not fast enough. With such sweet, perfect timing that Rowan was left utterly slack-jawed, a rather large stalactite dislodged from the ceiling and proceeded to impale all three illithids caught between it and the floor. The rumbling increased, then settled along with the dust; when it cleared, the full picture was made obvious to all left standing.

They were victorious. Completely. Utterly. The stalagmite and its shrapnel (well, the deadly kind) had somehow managed to miss Minsc and Imoen; Rowan couldn't see Annoying Man, but figured he was no loss. Of course, the thief and ranger were not without scratches, but nothing a cure spell wouldn't heal. Viconia, Haer'Dalis and Solaufein cautiously crept out. The drow priestess was somewhat less meek, striding out onto the rubble and making sure the illithids were well and truly dead.

Rowan was still sitting on her bum staring at the carnage. Pure, dumb luck…not that the others would have to know that... heh. The sorceress walked forward with her head held up high, giving Solaufein a superior smirk as she passed by. Hah, take THAT you brooding angst-ridden drow. By the expression on her face, Rowan could tell that the drow priestess – Phaere, was it? Was impressed. Very, very, impressed. She turned to the half-elf sorceress with a smile that was most likely the warmest she was physically capable of mustering, and completely ignoring the very annoyed and now even more depressed drow commander, tilted an eyebrow (what is it with drow and eyebrow tilting, Rowan wondered), and said, "Well done. Come talk to me within three days time." With that, the arrogant bitch strode off. Rowan promptly deflated. Sighing, Solaufein trailed after Phaere like a shadow, exasperation and anger clearly written on his face as he did so.

Aw, she almost felt sorry for the poor guy.  
Almost.

Now recovered, Minsc and Imoen grinned, giddy from their near-death encounter and celebrated by breaking out…oh dear, was that…hey, that was Moonshae brandy! Rowan rushed forward to join her party, grinning ear to ear.  
Ahhh yes. Things were finally beginning to look up...  
A voice that was, in Rowan's opinion, unfortunately familiar called out from behind a wall of rubble,

"My lady. A little help would be greatly appreciated."

...Or maybe not.  
Viconia paused from her ministrations of Imoen's wounds. The spunky drow priestess arched one perfect, white eyebrow in a very drow-like gesture as she smirked.

"My, how QUIET it is here. Don't you agree, abil?"

Haer'Dalis took a swig of brandy, somehow managing to look amused and wicked at the same time with a bottle pressed to his lips.

"Oh yes, my Raven," he was the very picture of innocence now, grey eyes wide and guileless. "This sparrow dost believe this be the calm within the eye of the storm."

Imoen burst out laughing, then quickly pressed a hand to her mouth to muffle it.

Rowan's grin grew all the wider. So maybe this wasn't as good as summoning a pit fiend, but hey…

Minsc was, of course, oblivious to it all, feeding his faithful hamster companion, who was now looking as tipsy as hamsters can get.

"My lady!" Anomen insisted.

Smirking, Rowan shrugged, sat herself down and took a swig of Moonshae brandy.


End file.
